Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XVIII - The Man Behind the Crime

-Millie-

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The flight back to Baker Street is excruciating.

Sherlock does not speak. I know better than to engage in futile conversation and, after the cabin lights dim and the surrounding voices mute, I decide to close my eyes, shut myself off from the stony man beside me and the meaningless chatter, and cross-analyse the events of our last hour in Vermont.

Jamie had requested to speak to us privately prior to our departure. We found him propped up in his hospital bed, face pale and dark hair ruffled, the steady drip of intravenous fluid moving from plastic pouch to tube to vein audible from our position by his side. He told us that he was sorry that he could not have been of more assistance, and that he hoped the information he had provided us with would give us an advantage in this ongoing battle of twisted wit and intellect.

Sherlock's clipped dialogue was interrupted by an incoming phone call, and he exited the room briefly in order to 'converse' with his brother over our transport arrangements. In his absence Jamie smiled, nervously, and ran his fingers – weighted with pulse monitors – through his hair, pausing at the back of his head.

"I'll try to visit, when I'm in England."

"I should hope so."

"If I can persuade Mycroft to take the risk, that is. Wouldn't want him to lose his top playing card to a stray bullet."

I stayed quiet, letting the loose curls fall in front of my face as I speculated; silent in my agreement.

"I think," he said, after a while, "that was my brother's version of a kind execution. Quick. Relatively painless. "

"Most probably."

"He's not going to be that lenient again, is he?"

"No. He's not."

"You're as blunt as each other," he remarked. "You and Mr Holmes – only you're a little less forthcoming with information."

"Was that a compliment?"

Jamie laughed, softly. "Yes, I suppose it was. I won't deny that he is one of the most intelligent men I've had the pleasure of meeting, but you see people. He sees fact. He can't – or at least, he refuses to – understand intention. Emotive response is every bit as importance as evidence."

"You poeticise my mind."

"I do. It's a weakness with me," he said, lightly. "One of my few weaknesses, to be sure, but a weakness nonetheless."

"I've seen worse."

"You remind me of her."

"I'm sorry?"

"Kim."

He extended his hand. I reached out and took it in my own, his skin cold beneath the perpetual chill of my fingers; a final, fleeting formality.

"Goodbye, Millie. Thank you. I'm sorry about your friend."

I could not generate a suitable response.

Sherlock and I departed, both of us reserved and questioning our involvement with Colonel Jamie Moriarty.

We arrive in good time and, after being met by Mycroft's grim-faced officials in their clean-cut suits and darkened eyewear, we are escorted back to Baker Street. I watch as the streets become more familiar; the industrialised nature of the outskirts of London begin to soften, fading to the old architecture and rows of terraced houses and cafés I now have the good fortune of calling home. The car pulls over beside the black door with its arched glass panelling and gold letterbox, and together Sherlock – still silent and unsmiling – and I exit the vehicle.